


Where the Wild Fires Roam

by Dalandel



Series: Modern Middle-Earth [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstory, Dysfunctional Family, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 01:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/pseuds/Dalandel
Summary: Dust clinging to sweaty skin, thoughts of his destination tumbling through Maeglin's mind, and a strong desire to turn back.The trip will change his life's path - in more than one way.Eöl is waiting.





	Where the Wild Fires Roam

 

 

The journey takes a long time – several different legs by bus, highways cutting through the wilderness like dirty, dusty scars, stops at nondescript gas stations where one could stretch their legs for a minute or two while the driver unloads and loads packages. The man spits in the ground every thirty seconds like a clock, the _thud thud_ of cardboard hitting the cart echoing across the yard so hot that the air sizzles where sunlight bakes it.

It’s one of the last days like this, and Maeglin’s sweating in the shadow of the coach, pulling in drags of cheap smoke and ignoring the coarse feeling in his agitated, dry throat. He’s been napping the past hour, legs stretched out on the seats with a weathered grey bandana tied over his eyes to shield him from the glaring sun. Now the cloth is wrapped around his head to keep the sweat-curled hair out of his obsidian eyes.

It’s been just him and the woman in a pastel green shirt and cream-coloured pen skirt for a while now, and Maeglin wonders if she thinks she’s being discreet, giving him glances from behind her giant mirrored shades. He looks at her with mild curiosity, blowing out smoke through his nose. She smiles at him and turns back to her phone, rhinestone coated nail gliding over the screen.

There’s a snap, then a curse. The bottom of a cardboard box gives in just as the driver lifts it, white confetti spilling across the cracked asphalt at his feet.

“For the ever-living… _How_ did that happen!” The round tanned face – which might have been clean-shaven today at 7 AM – is glistening with perspiration. The back of his white polo shirt is darkened with sweat.

Maeglin drops his cigarette, grinds his shoe on it until it extinguishes, and joins the man in trying to gather the pink plastic flamingos from the ground as an awkwardly timed breeze hushes through the near-abandoned yard, causing the shredded paper to fly all around them like powdery snow.

Maeglin’s pretty sure the woman is checking out his arse, but doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if he’s right. “I think we got them all,” he says, dropping the last flamingo on the cart the exasperated driver had meant to lower his burden on.

The man smiles at him. He has a funny, friendly face when he does that. “Thanks, lad. Have a bathroom break if you need it – I have to go and reseal this crap.”

Maeglin wouldn’t mind a bottle of something to drink – he ran out of water some time ago, and he’s starting to feel it. “Don’t leave without me.”

“Five minutes.”

“Gotcha.”

He makes it across the dusty station parking lot, sighing with relief when he discovers the small store-slash-café has a functioning – almost aggressively so – AC. It dries the clammy sheen on his skin almost instantly, and he can’t resist flapping his white tank top against his belly in an effort to cool himself while browsing the limited selection of soda.

The clip-clop of heels follows him, and Maeglin’s sense tingles with the knowledge that she’s onto him.

“Nice,” she says, and he turns his head to look at her. She’s removed her shades – her eyes are big and brown and lined with green that goes perfectly together with the purse she’s carrying in one jewelled hand.

Maeglin smiles at her, then turns back towards the cold storage, pulling open the door to pick up a bottle of Lonely Mountain Dew.

“You going to Mo-Ve too?”

The green bottle is refreshingly chilly in Maeglin’s hand – he turns it, studies the label with a little too much intensity, then gives her a wary sideways look. “Yeah.”

“Who are you visiting?” Her smile widens, revealing a tooth with golden decal.

“My old man.”

“My husband’s there,” she says, and there’s very little regret in her voice. “Or rather, soon-to-be-ex-husband. This is going to be our last family room meeting.”

Maeglin motions towards the cold drinks with his free hand. “Can I get you something?”

“A bottle of Strongbow,” she says without missing a beat. Maeglin turns back towards the cabinet and picks up a bottle of cider, then walks past her towards the red-eyed, ruddy-faced cashier. The draft blowing from behind the old guy brings a whiff of stale beer and piss, and Maeglin suddenly wants out more than he wants to enjoy the fabricated non-tropical climate. He scrambles together a few coins and drops them onto the cashier’s bark-like, scabbed palm.

“Here,” he utters as he pushes the bottle into the carefully maintained hand. “Better drink it while it’s still cold.”

“Care to pop it open for me?” She holds the bottle back towards him.

“Sure.” Maeglin sticks his Lonely Mountain Dew into his rear pocket, then digs out his lighter, snapping loose the metallic bottle cap with the dented edge. He feels the cool fizz on his skin, condensation covering the edge of his palm – the whiff of apples bringing a hello from autumn.  “Here you go.”

“Could you pass me a ciggy as well?”

“No problem.”

“And how about joining me in the back of the coach? We have two more hours to go.”

_Thump._

Maeglin glances at the cashier who grins merrily at him, pushing his dentures back into his pink mouth. He turns away, bemused, and tries to school his expression when he’s faced with a coy, expectant look. “Sorry, I plan to catch some more sleep.”

Her smile wavers, brown eyes narrowing minutely. The drink hisses in her hand, and Maeglin takes a step back from the cloyingly sweet smell mixing with her cherry body spray. He flees outside before she can respond, taking a swig of his soda and wincing at the harsh light. He can feel his dehydrated body just absorbing the liquid the second it hits his stomach – is that even physically possible? It sure feels like it.

The door swings open behind him, chime rattling. Her voice is low and sweet like honey. “Too bad, really – it would’ve been fun to see his face if I still got spunk on my thighs when he goes down on me.”

“Lady,” Maeglin sputters, stoppering the bottle with hurried fingers, “ _I’m gay._ I can’t get it up for you even if I tried.”

“… _Have_ you tried?” For the first time, there’s a bit of annoyance and disappointment in her voice. The gemmed nail taps against the glass of her bottle in a quiet, broken rhythm.

“…I have. It was _horrible_. I have no idea what to do with that thing. In truth, it scares the living shit out of me. Too wet and too soft. I think I got traumatised at birth.”

She stares at him, slow, glossy lips parted. Then she laughs, bright, almost girly. “Very well. _Fine._ ”

“Thanks, though,” Maeglin murmurs, trying not to blush too deep under her evaluating gaze while thumbing open the box of cigarettes, holding it towards her.

She picks one – surprisingly deftly considering her decorated talons – and places it behind her ear, then passes him by with a little less sway to her hips than before.

They climb back into the bus, and Maeglin returns to his place in the rear-half, drawing his long legs up. It’s too hot to sleep after all, and he spends the rest of the time staring out of the window, slowly draining his Lonely Mountain Dew.

 

It’s ironic, really, that the one time he gets to leave his concrete hell, he does it to go to a prison.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Morimando Vefui Prison,_ the giant sign says in a boring font.

Maeglin doesn’t like coming here. Every time he asks himself _why_ he does it. He never comes up with an answer that satisfies him.

The walls are tall, grey, formidable and imposing, and if they aren’t enough there’s a high fence with barbed wire wrapped around the spikes. Not even a good climber could get over that, though Maeglin’s speculative eye studies it as he stands at the gates, backpack slung over his shoulder. The officer is going through his papers with meticulousness of someone new to his job.

Maeglin waits.

“Lómion Maeglin László?” The young man sounds amused, looking up at him, a dimple forming on his left cheek. “What sort of name is that?”

Maeglin shrugs. “It’s a name.”

The officer sighs, handing Maeglin back his ID. _Winks._ Maeglin instantly dislikes him. “Go on in. Don’t forget to get your visitor tag. Wouldn’t want to get stuck in here.”

 

It’s only the first stop of many.

He’d filled the questionnaire sent to him by Eöl and mailed it back to the prison staff, counting all the offences and arrests in his record when Eöl was transferred from the max-sec and allowed visitors for the first time. It bounced back twice, and Maeglin appealed to several different authorities to have it reviewed and approved. Then, of course, because Maeglin wasn’t the golden boy of righteousness with an infallible moral compass, he added to his list of criminal charges and offences and that resulted in a few more years of paperwork and pleading to get to meet his father.

And still, he always feels like he doesn’t even want to. The looks he gets from the behind-desk turnkey contribute to that a fair lot.

“I don’t need this to know whose son you are,” he offers, dropping Maeglin’s documents on his semi-neat desk. “You’re like a slightly less dated carbon copy.”

Maeglin doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twist a little harder on the strap of his backpack.

The desk monkey pushes back a little, then pulls a pair of latex gloves from the box. “Put your stuff on the tray there. And you know the drill… With your rap sheet, I need to do a physical.”

Maeglin sighs, dropping his belt on the tray. “Not my first rodeo.”

“Oh, _I bet_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eöl turns to look at Maeglin when he arrives, and the second the obsidian eyes meet, there’s an electrical undercurrent. It’s not the opposites that stick together. It’s two negative poles that refuse to touch.

Maeglin averts his gaze when Eöl comes and hugs him. It’s a stiff, brief thing that’s allowed between them, and Maeglin endures, dutifully cupping his father’s elbows even when he can’t look at him, not up close like this. He’s maybe a finger’s width taller now, but Eöl’s arms are thicker, shoulders broader. He smells like smoke and laundry detergent. The grey jumpsuit he wears is rough against Maeglin’s bare arms.

Eöl notices his pebbled skin when he pulls away, moving to sit by the empty desk and clasping his big rough hands in front of him. “It’s cool for you in here.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Maeglin sits down opposite to his father, rubbing his hands down his arms – then grows more aware of himself and forces his body to stop fidgeting with some difficulty.

“I brought you a book,” he says, “and the cigarettes you asked for.”

Eöl smiles at him. It doesn’t quite reach his beetle eyes. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s a hassle.”

Maeglin’s never told his father they probe his arse before they let him in. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

There’s a moment of silence that reaches between them, inhabits the space between them. Eöl looks at his son, unashamed, doesn’t comment the fact that Maeglin’s eyes are unable to meet his.

“You don’t look well,” Eöl says suddenly, crossing his arms over his chest. Maeglin glances at him, finds his father’s face as expressionless as ever – only the tone of his voice has changed, making him feel defensive inside.

“The bus was hot. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“There was a bit more of you last time when you visited.”

Maeglin can’t hide anything from him. He’s not a bad liar, even if he’s not the most eloquent speaker, but if there’s one person who can read his eyes, it’s Eöl. They regard him from the mirror each time he gets to have a look.

“I’ve been sick.”

“You’re using again.” Another not-question. Maeglin looks up at that, his face carefully maintained neutral. He looks gaunt, eyes a little more sunken than usually. Somehow it makes him look both young and old, with the way Aredhel’s sharpness breaks through with this little meat to his skull.

“Prescription meds, Dad. I do actually need those, thank you very much.”

“Witty. Come on, look here.” Eöl leans closer, plants his elbows on the table. Maeglin resists, unmoving, bracing his arms against his lean torso. The dull creamy wall seems more interesting than his old father whom he visits twice a year at tops.

“Look at me.”

_“Dad.”_

_“Look. At. Me.”_

Maeglin does. There’s defiance, like a shield placed between them, but it’s cracked and made of glass. Eöl reads him like he reads the wind, the flight of birds. Some things can never be forgotten, not even when his horizons have shrunk into walls upon walls. He knows his son better now than he did when he was small. Hatred, anger, fear, self-loathing – they’re all familiar emotions to him.

And yet, Eöl is Maeglin’s father. He wants to scold him, but he wants to find a solution, too. Such is the curse of fatherhood. “You’re living with that Corben guy again, aren’t you?”

Maeglin sighs, rearranges himself in the chair, crosses his legs, then uncrosses them again. “It’s not your concern.”

Eöl’s lips twitch. He leans back too, lets some of the tension between them evaporate. “If everything’s good, then you shouldn’t have a problem telling me.”

“He doesn’t _live_ with me.”

“You’ll get locked up at this rate. You won’t survive that, Maeglin. You won’t make it here.” It’s a cold hard truth, but Eöl’s grown resistant to the icy sting of such words. The brief glimpse of doubt he catches in Maeglin’s eyes gives him the push he needs. “You won’t be excused the second time. And I don’t trust that man to look after you.”

Gods, there’s little else Eöl wishes as much as that he’d have intervened quick enough, told him – asked, begged, whatever – to join the military. Go abroad, away from these people. Away from that prim, useless Turgon. Away from Aredhel’s family. Away from Tirion. It would’ve been better, taught Maeglin to know himself before everyone else got to him with their consolation prizes for the boy whose father killed his mother. He’s too sensitive. He got ruined by it, and it’s too late now. All Eöl can do is try and keep Maeglin free and alive. Make a life for himself.

_Do as I say, not as I do._

It’s fucking frustrating to be where he is, for that. Maeglin’s too good at closing his ears. _Stubborn_. Eöl’s not sure if it’s his brand of stubbornness or Aredhel’s. Could be some horrible mix of both. It’s not just once or twice that Eöl’s wondered if Maeglin’s fucking up his life just to spite him, and he blames his son for at least half of his grey hairs.

“I _am_ looking after myself. I’m going to school. I’m working. Paying my rent,” Maeglin lists, aggravated even when his voice is carefully steady and low.

“And?”

“…And?”

“What else? Sports? Anything. You weren’t a bad runner.”

Maeglin scowls at his father. “I haven’t had the time for all that.”

Eöl sighs, rubs his scarred lower lip with the edge of his thumb.

He used to know people. Most of them are dead, or otherwise lost to him now, but there are some he still keeps track of, never mind the bars. A few live in Tirion.

One name pops into his mind. Not long ago, Eöl heard it again – that he’s become successful in his civs using the talents he honed during the war, and made a good career for himself. And not is he just wealthy and goal-oriented, he’s also gained name helping out all sorts of outcasts and misfortunate vets.

Maybe that could extend to a misfortunate vet’s misfortunate son.

“Do a thing for me, Maeglin. And for yourself.”

Maeglin releases the lip he’s been biting and cocks his head, not really curious for other reasons than Eöl’s tone. It’s different, all of a sudden.

“In Tirion, there’s a man who owns a gym – and teaches boxing, I hear. He hasn’t outpriced himself for the likes of us. You should pay the place a visit.”

Maeglin’s sigh is long-drawn at that. “Maybe. Will see.”

“I’m serious. Do it.”

“Right.”

Eöl reaches for Maeglin’s hand, draws it on the table and folds his fingers over it. His are warm. Maeglin’s are cool.

“His name is Gothmog Balrogath. Look him up.”

Maeglin’s merely staring at their hands, frozen in place. Eöl lets go, watches Maeglin pull his limb back into his lap. Something in him aches at that, but he can’t afford studying the feeling further. That place isn’t a good one.

“Yeah,” Maeglin whispers finally. “Yeah, fine.”

Eöl’s face softens. He’s got no way of knowing if Maeglin will do as he asks, but he knows pressuring him excessively is just going to end up with opposite results. One day Maeglin’s going to extend a hand, and Eöl’s patient enough to wait for it. He’s got nothing but time, anyway.

 

From behind Maeglin’s shoulder, Aredhel smiles.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I read a bunch of inmate visiting guidelines for this, and then ignored most of them. CDCR, for example, specifically doesn't allow visitors bandanas. Maeglin had to leave his behind - I feel confident saying Mo-Ve also acknowledges how dangerous bandanas can be.


End file.
